商场超市打折的，依旧是鸡蛋、奶粉、卫生纸、洗洁精、纸尿裤这些全家的生活必需品。
And yet: anxiety. Always that anxiety, ever-present. What had begun in inspiration and excitement had gone beyond that—gone even beyond the anxiety Bloom found embodied in the texts of the poets, becoming an entirely conscious, nagging worry over the contamination of any influence whatsoever. As I read Bloom’s work, playing and replaying his interviews and lectures just to hear his creaky voice intone the sacred charge again, I kept finding that for all the strength and sustenance I gathered as a reader, as a writer I only suffered more and more acute, painful blocks. Paralyzed, in the face of influence and history. Bloom’s ideas had first struck me as sensible: when I received his book, I was training as a classical musician, and I had already seen in the music I was studying the same operations he described. Only there, they were even more overt. Certain strains of melody, certain harmonic underpinnings, emerged across the works of composers as obvious debts to earlier ones. Brahms’s First Piano Concerto, for instance, is all over Rachmaninoff’s famous Third; moments in Beethoven have the same touch as his teacher Haydn, even if Beethoven ended up transcending his mentor so fully that the whole nineteenth century was filled with obvious attempts to surpass him. I already had my own aural evidence for the effects that Bloom discussed. I was easy to persuade.
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